Swimming to Catalina

shook hands with Marshall and looked over his shoulder again before he turned around Ippolito had left the bank.

    Stone walked quickly to the window and peered into the street. A familiar gray Lincoln Town Car was pulling away from the curb. He ran for his own car, got it started, and followed, staying well back. He had nothing pressing to do; he might as well see where Ippolito was going.
    He followed the Lincoln to Santa Monica Boulevard, then nearly all the way to the beach. To Stone’s surprise, the car stopped at Grimaldi’s. He looked at his watch: half past three, a little late for lunch. He parked half a block away and watched Ippolito get out of the car and go into the restaurant.
    He had a thought; he called the FBI and asked for Hank Cable.
    “Agent Cable.”
    “Hank, it’s Stone Barrington.”
    “Hi, there, how’s it going?”
    “You ever heard of an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s?”
    “Nope.”
    “It’s a wiseguy joint; I had dinner there last week and saw Ippolito and a couple of goombahs having a meet. I’m sitting outside the place right now, and Ippolito just went in.”
    “A little late for lunch, isn’t it?”
    “That’s what I was thinking. Maybe something besides pasta is being made there. You think you could get it on your wiretap list?”
    “I’ll see what I can do. We’re scheduled to wire Barone Financial tonight; I’ll let you know what we get.”
    “Great.” Stone gave him the address of the restaurant and hung up.
    Ippolito was in the restaurant for the better part ofan hour. Stone thought about going to the back door and snooping, but it was too risky in broad daylight. Finally, Ippolito came out and got back into the Lincoln. As it turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Stone got a look at the front seat. Vinnie Mancuso and his buddy, Manny, had been replaced by two others right out of the same mold. Stone followed as the car drove toward the beach, then turned north along the coast. Soon they were on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward Malibu.
    They were well into the beach community when the Lincoln turned into a garage attached to an elaborate house behind a high fence, close to the road like all the other houses. Stone looked the house over carefully; it was of a style that might be called contemporary traditional. A fence obscured the ground floor, but there was a palladian window in the peak of the second floor, and a cupola perched atop the roof. He made a U-turn, parked, and waited. A moment later, the Lincoln backed out of the garage and drove back toward L.A. The rear seat was empty. It was after five now; maybe it was Ippolito’s own house.
    He made another U-turn and stopped at a restaurant a few doors away, went inside, and found a stool at the bar. Happy hour was just starting, and people were stopping for a drink on the way home from work. Stone had a gin and tonic and kept to himself. After an hour had passed he got a table, ordered another drink, and asked for a menu. The sun was sinking loudly into the Pacific, a giant red ball given a hard edge by the smog.
    It was dark outside by the time he had finished his dinner. He ordered another drink, and when it came he paid his check and walked out onto a deck, where peoplewere dining. There was a stairway down to the beach, and Stone took it. He set his drink down on the bottom step and walked along the sand for fifty yards, watching for the house; the cupola on top made it easy to pick out, even in the dark. There were lights on, and perhaps ten feet above his head he could see that a sliding glass door to the deck was open.
    Stone looked around; the beach was deserted now. He walked under the house’s deck and listened. Soft music wafted out into the night air. Above his head he could see the outline of a folding stairway to the beach, in its retracted position. He looked around in the dark until he found a rusty coat hanger, then, after listening for a while, he climbed up on a supporting beam between two of the pilings that supported the house, unbent the hanger, hooked the end of the stairway, and pulled it slowly down until it reached the sand.
    Carefully, he climbed the stairs until his head was at deck level, then stopped and listened again. To the right of the sliding glass doors a window was open, and human noises were emanating from it, grunts and groans, sighs and little shrieks. Ippolito was getting laid. Stone continued softly up the stairs.
    Finally at deck